


How Jemma Simmons Saved Christmas

by SuburbanSun



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Mistletoe, academy au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:37:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2836655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuburbanSun/pseuds/SuburbanSun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A couple of SciTech cadets, a pair of Ops trainees and a Comm student find that you don’t have to go home for Christmas to be home for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Shopping Days 'Til Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suckitdomitian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suckitdomitian/gifts).



_"_ Absolutely not, Fitz. I won’t hear of it.”

“Don’t be absurd. You’re going and that’s that.”

“I’m not, actually, so that’s not that. I’m not leaving you here at Christmas of all times. You’d probably just sit in your room, eating microwave macaroni and cheese in your pants five days in a row.”

Fitz looked at Simmons across the lab bench, face alight with indignance. “That was one time!”

She spared him a withering look from behind her safety goggles. “Once was enough. The point is, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy my holiday knowing you were all alone here, no Christmas turkey, no puddings…” She turned her attention back to the tiny pair of rat lungs she was examining, prodding them with her forceps.

“It’s not your fault that I can’t go home for Christmas,” Fitz said, his tone softer. “You shouldn’t miss out on time with your family just because my mum can’t afford to fly me home _and_ fly out for graduation. That’s not your fault.”

Simmons didn’t look up from her lab station. “It’s not my fault you waited ‘til the weekend before hols to tell me you weren’t going home, either, but here we are. Lucky I had a refundable plane ticket and an understanding mum and dad.”

The pair worked in silence for a moment, at an impasse. Fitz knew that she wouldn’t relent-- didn’t want her to, really-- but felt guilty that she would be missing out on the rare chance to spend time with her family. He was incredibly close to his mum, but he knew that Simmons was just as close to her parents. The holidays wouldn’t be the same without their families.

“Look,” Simmons began, turning to him with the lungs pinched in her forceps’ grasp. “I know you feel like you’re completely and utterly ruining my holidays--”

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far--” Fitz interjected.

“--but this is my choice. And besides, it’ll be fun!” She punctuated her point by gesturing at him with her forceps. He grimaced at the minute lungs they gripped, keeping an eye on them and hoping fervently that she wouldn’t let go. “We’ll have an English Christmas, with all the trimmings. I’ve been meaning to learn how to cook a turkey. Ooh, or I could make you haggis!” With this, Simmons gestured excitedly with the forceps, absentmindedly thrusting the lungs even closer to Fitz.

“You know, I think let’s go without the haggis this year, thanks,” he said, looking meaningfully at the lab experiment that she held too close to him for his comfort. She looked at him, puzzled, before realizing what he meant, and sheepishly returned the lungs to their tray, setting down her forceps and removing her goggles and gloves.

“Alright. Nothing too reminiscent of our labwork for dinner. But I’ll make my mum’s famous mashed potatoes! And meat pies! And we can have Christmas crackers!” She was becoming more and more enthusiastic about the idea of a traditional Christmas holiday, transplanted to the U.S. just for the two of them. Suddenly her eyes lit up. “And then we can--”

“--watch the Doctor Who Christmas special!” he finished, equally excited.

“Yes! Oh, Fitz, this is going to be wonderful!” She smiled at him fully, a smile he knew meant she was genuinely happy, and he relaxed a bit, more secure in the knowledge that he wasn’t dragging her away from her family against her will. After a moment of simply grinning at each other, she turned away with a start. “I have so much planning to do! I’ve got to call my mum and get all of her recipes, and then see where we can find crackers nearby...”

Simmons rushed around the lab, removing her coat and hanging it on its rightful hook before grabbing her bag and making for the sliding glass doors, muttering about the tasks she’d have to add to her to-do list all the while.

“Simmons--” Fitz began, but she was already halfway out the door.

“I’ll see you later, Fitz! Much to plan!” And then she was gone.

Fitz stood in her wake, a smile playing at his lips, looking forward to the holidays for the first time since he’d found out he couldn’t make it home to Glasgow. Then he looked over at Simmons’ lab station, where the rat lungs lay forgotten, forceps propped against the metal tray. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Oh, yeah, terrific, Simmons,” he muttered to himself, before reluctantly setting about to clean up after her. “Disgusting rat parts. Happy Christmas to me.”

 


	2. Four Shopping Days 'Til Christmas

“Oh my God, is that Tony Stark?” Skye gaped, wide-eyed, out the window of their usual diner booth.

“Where?!” Fitz jumped in his seat, knees knocking into the table. “Simmons, get out the photo!”

While he craned his neck to survey the parking lot outside, searching for the brilliant billionaire, Skye swiped a heaping handful of curly fries from his plate. Simmons, sitting beside Fitz, just shook her head.

“Fitz, she’s kidding.” Then, admonishing Skye: “Don’t get his hopes up like that. You don’t have to live with him.”

“Hey,” Fitz said weakly, disappointed at Skye’s trickery. She just laughed, popping a fry into her mouth with aplomb.

“Okay, first of all, I can’t believe you fell for that, genius.” He scowled at her, arms crossed. “And secondly-- you have a photo of Tony Stark on your person? Or on Simmons’ person? Same thing, really, I guess.”

“Well I want to be prepared, don’t I?” snapped Fitz, though there was no bite in it. “Would you want to meet your hacker hero, Anonymous or whoever, and not have a photo ready for him to autograph?”

“I can’t get a photo of Anonymous. That’s the point. He’s anonymous.” Fitz just continued to scowl.

“So Skye,” began Simmons, in her “break it up, children” tone. “When are you leaving for Christmas hols? Where did you say you were going? New York?”

Fitz pulled his plate closer to him, guarding his remaining fries protectively, eyeing her as she shifted in the vinyl booth.

“Um, yeah. Uh huh. Tomorrow.”

“Wait a tic. I thought you told me you were going down to Florida?” interjected Fitz.

“No. Why would I say that when I’m clearly going to New York?”

“No, you definitely said Florida, because you kept calling me a Hufflepuff even though I’m obviously a Ravenclaw and then said I should be jealous, because you’d be in Harry Potter land this time next week.”

“Did I say that?” Skye took a long slurp of her chocolate milkshake.

Simmons narrowed her eyes at Skye, arms crossed. “So you told Fitz you were going one place, and told me you were going another. That could only mean one thing.”

“I hit my head on my closet door and caught amnesia,” Skye answered solemnly.

“You don’t _catch_ amnesia, Skye. But no.” Simmons looked at her softly. “Are you not going anyplace for Christmas?”

Skye looked back and forth between Simmons’s concerned expression and Fitz’s perplexed one before giving in with a sigh. “No. I’m not going anywhere. But it’s no big deal.”

“Why did you tell us you were going out of town, then?” asked Fitz.

“I don’t know.” Skye shifted uncomfortably in her seat again. “Simmons takes Christmas so seriously. I guess I didn’t want to tell you guys that I usually just hang out around my place and marathon TV shows. I think there’s an X-Files one on SyFy this year, so…” She offered them two awkward thumbs up.

“You never go anywhere for the holidays?” asked Simmons.

“No family kinda means no family to go home to.” Skye shrugged. “It’s not like the orphanage asks us alumni back for Christmas every year.”

“Oh Skye, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think!”

“Hey, don’t feel sorry for me. I love being alone.”

“Not during an X-Files marathon, you don’t,” Fitz pointed out. “You made us come over at midnight last time you watched that episode about the inbred weirdos.”

“It’s scary!”

“We know,” Fitz and Simmons said in unison, nodding emphatically, before exchanging a glance.

“No. This is nonsense and I won’t hear of it,” said Simmons.

“She’s right. You’re coming to Christmas dinner with us--” Fitz began.

“--and there’s no way around it,” Simmons finished. “It’s difficult to find a turkey small enough for just two, anyway.”

Skye looked at the pair sitting across from her with a mix of gratefulness and disbelief in her eyes. She shook her head. “I can’t get in the way of your FitzSimmons family Christmas.”

“You won’t be in the way at all.”

“And if you come too, maybe you can help shoulder some of the guilt for keeping this one from her real family,” Fitz suggested, gesturing to Simmons, who just rolled her eyes.

“You _are_ my real family. _Both_ of you.”

Fitz and Skye looked at Simmons then, a bit too touched by her sentiment to say anything else.

“So that’s that,” Simmons said decisively. “It’ll be the three of us for a traditional English Christmas! All the trimmings! Roast turkey, chestnut stuffing, puddings…”

Skye looked at her friends, the first real family she’d ever had, heart full. “Aww, you guys…” She smiled at them. “Ten points to Hufflepuff!”

“Hey!”


	3. Three Shopping Days 'Til Christmas

“What’s the difference between Russets and Yukon Golds? And what about-- ooh, let’s get these pretty purple ones!”

Simmons rolled the cart closer to where Skye stood, wide-eyed, cupped hands filled with inky-colored root vegetables. “We’re not mashing purple potatoes for Christmas dinner, Skye,” she said, tutting. “It would be unseemly.”

Skye looked disappointed, but immediately shifted her attention to a rutabaga shaped vaguely like a penis, which she proceeded to act out lewd things with as Simmons pretended to ignore her.

“No,” Simmons said quietly, more to herself than to Skye, who was now holding a pair of perky, pink turnips in front of her chest, waggling them up and down in a futile attempt to capture the other girl’s attention. “Everything has to be traditional. Perfect. Christmassy.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure Christmassy’s a word.” Skye set the turnips back on the pile. “And what are you so stressed out about? You’re a great cook.”

“I know.” Simmons worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Then catching herself-- _mind your manners, Jemma--_ “I mean, thank you. But I just want to make sure everything goes without a hitch. It’s the first Christmas that Fitz will be spending without his mum, and they’re so close, and I just want to make sure everything is--”

“Perfect, right,” Skye interjects. “But Simmons, you could put cold McDonald’s on a paper plate and he’d think it was perfect because it came from you. I don’t think food is the key to Fitz’s heart.” She leaned on the handle of the cart, supporting her weight on the bottom basket and gliding a few feet forward. “At least, not when you’re the key-holder. Does this metaphor make any sense?”

Simmons looked up from where she leaned over a low shelf, surveying the fresh herbs. “Do they ever?” she asked with a smile. Skye just stuck out her tongue, plucked a green grape from the bunches piled to her left, and threw it at Simmons.

“Hey! No wasting fruit,” warned Simmons, laughing. Skye leaned back on the cart handle, slowly wheeling past a neat display of oranges, and looked around the produce department.

“So what else is on that list of yours? Anything I can--oh shit!” She suddenly dropped into a crouch beside the cart, hidden away from the rest of the department by the shelf full of fruit. Simmons’ eyes widened, and she joined Skye in a crouch, plastic bag full of fennel in hand.

The two women exchanged panicked glances. “Skye? Why are we hiding?”

Skye shushed Simmons with her finger held to her lips, then whispered, “Ward.”

Simmons’ eyes widened further. “Grant Ward? As in, Grant ‘You Hooked Up With Him And He Never Called You’ Ward?”

“Not exactly.” Skye scowled. “More like, Grant ‘I Hooked Up With Him And Then Freaked Out And Didn’t Leave My Phone Number Or Ever Try To Contact Him’ Ward.”

“Skye!” Simmons’ admonished her. “Poor form.”

“I know! I know. I just freaked! You know how I can get.” Simmons nodded in response-- she did indeed know how Skye could get. “But now we have to sneak out of here before he sees me. He was over by the cantaloupes so he must have been heading to the right, so if we stay down low and go to the left--” Skye turned to her left, still in a crouch, and began to awkwardly shuffle away.

“Or--” Simmons stood up fully, unwilling to be a part of Skye’s shenanigans.

“Simmons!” But it was already too late. Grant Ward was standing directly to Skye’s left, looking down at her with a melon in each hand, perplexed.

“Skye?” He raised an eyebrow at her still-crouching form.

“Yep.”

Simmons chose that moment to poke her head into Skye’s field of vision, leaning over her from behind. “I’m going to just go find the remainder of items on the list. Give you two a moment to chat.” She steered the cart in a wide arc around the pair. Skye attempted to communicate to Simmons with her eyes-- _don’t leave me_ \-- but Simmons simply smirked and wheeled her way out of the produce department entirely.

“Can I--” Ward began, shifting one melon into the crook of his arm and offering her a hand. She took it, allowing him to pull her into a standing position.

“I was just, uh-- Silly Simmons, she picked out the perfect eggplant and then it rolled away. You know eggplants.” She laughed nervously.

“They’re wily,” he said, dryly.

“That they are.”

A moment of silence passed between the two, as both struggled for something to say.

“I’m sorry that--” he started to say.

“I didn’t think--” she began at the same time. They smiled at each other, sheepish.

“You go ahead,” he said, nodding.

“No, really, you go ahead. I don’t actually have any idea what I was going to say. Just saying words, really.” She couldn’t help but cringe a little at herself.

“Alright. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry if I overstepped that night when you came over,” he said. Then, voice lower, “It was a fun night. It didn’t have to be anything else.”

“No! I mean, it wasn’t your fault. I just got a little spooked, and when I get spooked, I bail. Like a skittish horse… that bails.”

He nodded, seeming to understand in spite of her lack of finesse when it came to metaphor. “It’s probably for the best, anyway,” he began. “Getting… involved… with someone at this point in my training isn’t necessarily wise. Specialists aren’t supposed to…”

“What? Have emotions?” she asked, half-jokingly, feeling slightly more at ease in the conversation. “Not that I’m one to talk, but… I don’t know. That sounds shitty.”

He raised his brows at her, slightly amused. “It’s protocol.”

“More like _no_ tocol,” she said, face immediately contorting in sheer horror. “I’m sorry. That was awful.”

He chuckled, and another silence passed. “So. What brings you here?”

“To the grocery store? Simmons is throwing a kind of orphan Christmas, for those of us without anywhere to go this week. Well, not real orphans. Well, FitzSimmons aren’t real orphans. I am. They just aren’t going home to Hogsmeade for Christmas this year. I actually have no parents. And wow, I just can’t seem to stop myself from saying words right now. Sorry.” She grimaced, cursing her inability to just shut up every now and then.

“It’s okay.” He looked at her with a fond smile. “That sounds nice.”

“What are you still doing around here? Shouldn’t you be back home in the heartland with your family, putting a little cousin in a headlock in the middle of a cornfield or something?”

His smile faltered, just barely. “Actually, no. I’m staying in town this week. Proper training means no days off.”

“Well that sucks. I mean, won’t your parents miss you? Won’t you miss them?” Skye couldn’t be sure, but she hoped that if she had a family, she would never skip out on a holiday with them in favor of one-armed pushups and target practice.

“Actually-- I don’t really get along with my family,” he said with finality. That was all he would say on the subject, and his tone made it clear.

“Oh… okay. Sorry.”

“Not your fault."

“Yeah,” she said softly, gaze shifting to the rows of produce to her right. She spotted her coveted purple potatoes, and cocked her head to the side, thinking. “So, that sucks, and all. But that doesn’t mean you can’t celebrate Christmas, right?”

He furrowed his brow at her. “Right?”

“Come to Simmons’ dinner with me,” she said in a rush. “Not _with_ me. Or yes with me, either way. If that’s not awkward. Is that awkward?”

“Maybe,” he answered, the corner of his lip rising just slightly.

“It’s just me and FitzSimmons, and I’m tired of third-wheeling them, anyway. Simmons is a great cook, and we’ll probably watch ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ or something and there’s going to be pudding. Hopefully chocolate. It’ll be great, and you can hit the gym after, or even go nuts and put it off ‘til the next day.” He raised his eyebrows at that suggestion. “Live a little, Grant Ward.”

He sucked in a breath through his nose, considering her offer. It had been a long time since he’d had a homecooked meal. And he’d always had a soft spot for chocolate pudding.

“What time?”


	4. Two Shopping Days 'Til Christmas

"Too short… too bare… ugh, too sappy,” mumbled Fitz, pulling his now-sticky hand away from an otherwise nice-looking Balsam fir. With only two days left until Christmas, the tree lot had been fairly picked over, but Fitz was determined to find the perfect tree. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his downy black coat and meandered through the rows of the lot.

“Hey-- hey Fitz!”

He looked up at the sound of an unfamiliar male voice. Approaching him from the other side of the tree lot was Antoine Triplett, a fellow cadet he knew by sight, though not well. Fitz squinted at the man as he walked towards him. Triplett was wearing a green apron that came to his knees, with “Big Al’s Tree Emporium” printed in a festive red font across the front.

“It is Fitz, right?” asked Triplett when Fitz showed no sign of recognition.

“Oh! Yes. Fitz. Is me.”

“I thought so.” Triplett nodded, then gestured to himself. “Trip. Or Antoine. We’ve met a couple times I think.”

“Right, right.” Fitz smiled politely, unsure what to say to the taller man. He clearly worked at the tree lot-- maybe he just wanted to help Fitz pick out a tree. Something, Fitz thought to himself, he could definitely have handled alone.

“How’re classes going? I always wondered what it was like over at SciTech.”

“They’re a right bit tougher than Ops classes, I’m sure,” Fitz replied defensively. He had never spoken to Triplett-- _Trip_ \-- except in passing, and he wasn’t sure why he would be acting friendly towards him now. Ops cadets tended to poke fun at Fitz, when they acknowledged him at all. Fitz suspected the other man had a punchline at the ready.

But Trip just laughed. “Maybe so, maybe so. We’re coming up on advanced field training next semester, though… can’t say I’m not a little worried about that.”

“Yeah… sounds tough.” Fitz looked past Trip at the crooked pine behind him, boughs sagging.

“Oh yeah, you’re probably here for a tree, huh?” said Trip. “Lemme help you find one.” He gestured around the nearly deserted lot. “There’s not a lot to do this close to the big day.”

The two men began to walk slowly down the row, investigating tree after tree.

“Why do you work here, anyway?” asked Fitz, realizing afterwards that he might have been a bit blunt considering he was speaking to someone he barely knew. “I mean, it’s just, I thought Academy cadets weren’t really supposed to work. Our studies are supposed to be our priority.”

“Yeah, that’s the general rule,” Trip said. “But what they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em.” He smiled conspiratorially and Fitz couldn’t help but smile back. “Anyway, who couldn’t use a little extra cash around the holidays? I like to make my own money, and I don’t let it get in the way of training. Besides,” he began, spotting a hefty-looking spruce to his right that, sadly, had a fairly prominent bald spot, and wrapping his arms around it, lifting it easily before dropping it back to the concrete. “It’s a pretty great workout.”

Fitz laughed. Trip may have been Ops, but he didn’t seem that bad. While Fitz didn’t have any real friends in the Academy’s Operations division, it couldn’t hurt to be friendly.

“Yeah. I could see that.” Fitz took a few more steps toward a fir tree with lush green branches, that unfortunately only came up to his own shoulders. Still, he was no longer sure that he could be choosy when it came to tree selection. “So, like you said, it’s almost Christmas. Shouldn’t you be getting out of town for the week like everybody else?”

Trip took hold of the tree Fitz was examining, pulling it forward a few inches and rotating it so they could get a good look at all sides. He smiled, though less easily than he had before. “Downside of S.H.I.E.L.D. running in the family,” he answered. “My parents are both agents, and they don’t get holidays off when they’re away on missions. Got an older brother, but he’s spending Christmas on a cruise with his wife and her parents this year. So I’m sticking around here. Luckily Stouffer’s makes a pretty mean turkey and gravy,” he added with a chuckle.

Fitz thought for a second, hands skimming the needles of the tree Trip was still holding onto.

“I’ll take this one,” Fitz said decisively, gesturing toward the tree. Then, without looking Trip directly in the eye, “And-- and you can’t do that for Christmas. Staying in with a microwave dinner. It’s not-- it’s not in the holiday spirit, is it?”

Trip cocked his head, waiting for Fitz to continue.

“Me and Simmons-- uh, that’s Jemma Simmons, also SciTech-- we’re having something of a Christmas dinner for friends who can’t make it home for whatever reason. Simmons’ll be cooking, and she’s really tops at it, and we’ll drink some eggnog or mead or Budweiser, or whatever Americans drink around the holidays, and you should join us.”

A slow smile creeping onto Trip’s face, he began to nod. “You sure I wouldn’t be crashing?”

“‘Course. And even if you are, we’ve already got two others crashing anyway. Skye and Grant Ward, if you know them.”

“I know Ward. We’ve trained together. Nice guy, kind of tough to get a read on, stoic.” Then, squinting slightly and affecting a flat, Midwestern accent: “I’m Cadet Grant Ward. I can put the combat practice dummy into a sleeper hold and shoot a perfect bullseye at 100 yards-- at the same time.” He let the impression drop, laughing at his own joke.

Fitz stared at Trip for a moment before letting out a genuine guffaw. He felt even more certain about his decision to invite Trip for Christmas dinner. People could say what they would about Ops cadets-- some of them clearly weren’t half bad.

Though also probably not half as smart as Simmons and him, either, Fitz thought to himself reflexively. Although really, who was?

 


	5. One Shopping Day 'Til Christmas

" _And may all your Christmases be white…”_ crooned Bing Crosby on the stereo. Simmons hummed along with him as she stirred the cranberry sauce that simmered in a pan on the stove. The warm, spiced fragrance it provided combined with the scent of the fir tree Fitz had set up by the living room window to make the apartment smell incredibly like home.

Having put herself in charge of all Christmas foods for the next day’s celebration, Simmons was preparing all she could a day ahead of time while Fitz searched for a market in town that carried the crackers they’d break open over dinner.

The song changed from the wistful “White Christmas” to the telltale opening notes of Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You.” Simmons smiled, beginning to shimmy to the rhythm a bit as she reached for an orange to zest over the sauce, when she heard a knock at the door.

“Just a second!” She placed the zester and orange on the counter and turning down the stereo’s volume knob on her way to the door. She wasn’t sure who it could be-- Fitz and Skye would both let themselves in, and practically everyone else she knew had already left town.

Simmons pulled the door open, eyebrows raising in surprise when she saw Grant Ward standing atop the periodic table welcome mat that Fitz had given her as a funny-but-also-sort-of-perfect birthday gift the year prior.

She tilted her head in bemusement when she noticed he held a pie in front of him. Pumpkin, judging by its aroma.

After a moment of the two just standing there, staring at each other, Simmons recovered her wits and waved him forward. “Come in; come in!” He followed her with a nod, and she shut the door behind them.

“What brings you here, Ward? Grant?”

“Ward’s fine.” She smiled as he held the pie out to her, taking it and breathing in the smell of pumpkin and spices.

“This smells delicious.”

“Thanks,” he said, looking down to hide a proud grin. “I wasn’t sure if it was Skye’s place to invite me to dinner tomorrow, so I figured the least I could do was bring something to say thanks. She gave me your address.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all!” Simmons set the pie down on the countertop, beside a plate of sugar cookies she’d iced to look like poinsettias, snowmen, wrapped gifts and one smiling monkey donning a Santa hat. “Besides, it’s Skye-- we’re used to her acting without thinking by now.” Then, catching herself: “Not that you aren’t welcome! Of course we’re happy to have you. The more, the merrier!”

Simmons crossed the kitchen to the stove, turning the flame down slightly on the cranberry sauce. “Where did you get a pie on such short notice? It looks fresher than the ones at the supermarket.”

When Simmons turned back around, she thought Ward might be blushing-- if tough-guy Ops cadets blushed, of course.

“I, uh. I made it, actually.”

Simmons’ mouth formed an ‘o’ of surprise before breaking into a smile. “You bake?”

“I have a diverse skill set.”

“Where did you learn to make pies? Does the Operations Academy offer home ec courses now?” She smirked a bit, unable to resist.

“We leave the cakewalk classes to the Comm cadets, actually,” he replied, and they both chuckled. The rivalry was strong between Operations and Sci-Tech, but both agreed on the inferiority of Communications. _Sorry, Skye,_ Simmons thought to herself.

“My grandmother baked,” Ward offered, after a moment of hesitation. “I don’t have many fond memories of my immediate family. Or any, actually. But my grandmother was always nice to me, and she taught me to bake when I was a kid.” If he hadn’t been blushing before, Simmons thought that he definitely was now. “I think of her sometimes and remember who I’m training to protect.”

Simmons tsked, suppressing the urge to say _aww_ aloud. Instead, she just smiled at him encouragingly, surprised to hear the specialist-in-training that she barely knew opening up to her, but appreciating it all the same. He met her smile with a small one of his own, and straightened where he leaned against the kitchen counter.

“I should probably get out of your hair now. I didn’t mean to intrude.” He took a few small shuffling steps toward the door just as it opened, Fitz backing into the apartment as he unwound his blue plaid scarf, several crinkly plastic bags hanging from his hands.

“I had to go to three different stores to find these things, Simmons, so they’d better have some bloody well hilarious jokes inside,” he called out, not yet noticing the other man standing in the kitchen. “And then I finally found them at that World Emporium on Hobart. Can you believe it? Had to go to a store full of exotic ethnic foods, half of which are probably illegal or worse, disgusting, just to find traditional British Christmas crackers.” Under his breath, he muttered, “Americans.”  

Finally, after hanging up his scarf and coat, he turned towards the kitchen, where Simmons and Ward stood, amused looks on their faces. “Oh,” he began. “Hello.”

“Grant Ward, Operations,” Ward said firmly, offering his hand to Fitz. The two men shook, and then fell silent.

“Oh! Fitz,” Simmons said, gesturing toward Fitz by way of introduction.

“Grant Ward. You’re the, uh. Skye’s… the guy who Skye--”

“--invited to join us for dinner tomorrow evening!” Simmons finished for him, before shooting him a glare. He shrugged at her, making an _oops_ face.

“Right, yeah, that’s what I was going to say. So what brings you over on Christmas Eve? Caroling?” Fitz chuckled to himself at the image he conjured of the leather jacketed man singing festive songs from door to door.

“Ward brought over a lovely pie, actually. Pumpkin. Your favorite, Fitz!” Simmons said cheerily. Fitz hummed in agreement-- pumpkin was indeed his favorite.

“I was just heading out, actually. It was good to officially meet you, Fitz.” Ward clapped the shorter man on the back before turning to Simmons. “Thank you again.”

“It’s our pleasure. We’ll see you tomorrow!”

“G’bye,” Fitz added, and Ward was out the door, shutting it gently behind him.

Fitz and Simmons exchanged a look, one that easily communicated “since when do Ops cadets hand-deliver freshly baked pies to our doorstep?” Simmons grinned at him, reaching out to adjust his tie that had gotten twisted by the removal of several winter layers and then turned back to the sauce still cooking on the stove.

“You were saying? Something vaguely offensive about disgusting ethnic food?” she asked over her shoulder. Fitz moved toward the dessert corner of the kitchen, tempted by the pie and piles of cookies.

“Just that the crackers had better be worth the effort.” He picked up the monkey cookie from the plate.

“Put it down, Fitz,” she said without even turning around.

“Aw, come on!” he protested, nevertheless replacing the cookie on top of the pile. “Just his tail? I’m famished!”

Simmons turned around, glaring, but relented when she saw his hopeful face. “Fine. But grab me one too. The DNA double-helix. And that’s _it_ until tomorrow evening.”

He grinned, plucking his prize from the pile, then unearthing her cookie from beneath the more seasonal ones and handing it over.

“Cheers, Fitz,” she said, holding out her cookie. He tapped it lightly with his own.

“Cheers, Simmons.” The two munched happily, Gene Autry’s voice singing about Rudolph’s heroic flight filling the room with holiday spirit.


	6. Zero Shopping Days 'Til Christmas

"Oh, does it look like the skin is crisping? I can’t tell if it’s crisping right. Can you take a look at it, Fitz?” Simmons stood in the kitchen, brows drawn, a quilted potholder on each hand. Fitz entered from the living room, plucked one off her left hand and pulled it onto his own, then cracked open the oven.

“Smells delicious.”

“We can’t eat smells for Christmas dinner."

“Would you get your knickers out of a twist? It looks fine.”

She bit her bottom lip as he closed the oven door. “Only fine?”

“Jemma.” He turned fully toward her, skimming her upper arm with his potholder-clad hand. “Everything is going to go without a hitch. The turkey looks _and_ smells amazing. The tree is trimmed. The guests are on their way. Relax.”

She nodded, reassured, and he dropped his arm back to his side. “Speaking of guests, they should be arriving any--”

A knock at the door cut her off. She clapped her hands gleefully, making only a muffled sound because of the potholder she still wore, and honestly, Fitz would never understand the way her mood could change from worried to beatific in mere moments, but he couldn’t help but grin at the sight of her. She tossed the potholder onto the counter and rushed to the door.

“Ho, ho, ho, merry Christmas!” Skye shouted, voice deep, as the door opened. Behind her stood Ward, one eyebrow raised at Skye’s Santa impression, and Trip, who just laughed. “Look at these strapping young men I found in the parking lot!”

“Come in, come in!” Simmons ushered the trio into the apartment, taking their coats and hanging them alongside hers and Fitz’s on the rack beside the door-- five hooks, five coats.

“I figured you were all set on food after our grocery trip the other day, so I brought the really important ingredients.” Skye thrust a clanking canvas bag into Simmons’ hands. “Pinot.” Then, entering the apartment more fully: “Hey Fitz. Nice deer sweater.”

“It’s a _rein_ deer, I’ll have you know, Skye.”

“And it’s his favorite,” added Simmons.

“It’s festive!”

“I dig it, Fitz,” said Trip, before turning his attention to Simmons. “Antoine Triplett,” he introduced himself, holding out a hand to shake hers. “Thanks for letting me join the party. I hope adding a fifth mouth to feed wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all! Cooking for five is really no different than cooking for four.”

“Fitz spoke very highly of your cooking,” he added. Simmons felt a slight blush rise in her cheeks.

“Oh, Fitz’ll eat anything.”

“Anything you make,” called Fitz from the living room, where he’d knelt to set up a Christmas playlist on the stereo. Soon, the sounds of Lennon’s “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)” filled the room. He’d rigged the strands of multi-colored Christmas lights that he and Simmons had wrapped around the tree to elaborately fade in and out in time with the music, and they bathed the room in a warm, festive glow.

“I wasn’t sure what to bring, so I just figured you can’t go wrong with eggnog.” Trip held up an enormous jug of the stuff.

“As long as it’s spiked, I’m in,” said Skye, taking the container from him and crossing into the kitchen to pour drinks.

“That’s perfect, Antoine, thank you. Now everyone, make yourself at home. I’ve still got to tend to the food, but you all can have a seat and relax.” She followed Skye into the kitchen, as Ward and Trip joined Fitz in the living room.

 

 

Simmons let out a laugh when she saw the glasses of eggnog Skye was pouring-- the very full glasses. “Thirsty, Skye?”

“What?” Skye shrugged. “We’ve got a houseful of hot men, and now we need drinks!” She took a sip of her eggnog. “Though don’t worry, Simmons, I’m not trying to horn in on _your_ hot man.”

“Fitz is not _my man_ ,” Simmons protested, fluffing a plateful of buttery crescent rolls. Then, looking at Skye out of the corner of her eye: “You think he’s hot?”

Skye rolled her eyes. “You do too, if you’d admit it already. But yeah, you’re right, I’m more feelin’ Cadets Handsome and Handsomer over there. Speaking of whom-- they need drinks, and I’ve got a mission to initiate.” She pushed three glasses of nog into a triangle to carry them all over to the living room at once.

 

 

“You thought Walden’s Covert Theory class was tough? I thought it was pretty straightforward,” scoffed Trip, sipping his glass of eggnog. Skye had delivered the drinks, then disappeared, leaving the three men in the living room.

“Did you hear me say the word ‘tough’? I said ‘challenging,’” said Ward. “I happen to appreciate a challenge.”

“Oh really? Then maybe I _challenge_ you to a one-on-one on the Ops training field next week,” said Trip with a cocky grin. “See how _challenging_ you find that.” Ward just shook his head, a slight smile on his face, and sipped his drink. Fitz stood a few steps away, listening to the conversation but thus far not participating in it. He perked up at Trip’s mention of the Ops training field.

“Fun fact,” he began. “The holographic obstacles on the training course are there to provide opposing forces for the trainees to interact with, but did you know they’re also used to detect slight changes in biometric data and adjust their size, location and other variables accordingly, as well as log the data for future use?” He grinned up at the two cadets. “Pretty sure Walden keeps that bit to himself.”

“How’s a Sci-Tech guy know what the Ops course holograms look like?”

“I designed them,” said Fitz, as if it were obvious. Ward and Trip exchanged an impressed look. “When I was fourteen.”

 

 

Skye glanced around sneakily as she approached her purse, which lay slouched on the floor beside the front door. Glad to see no one was watching her, with Simmons in the kitchen and the men bonding over who-knows-what, she opened it and fished around inside.

“There you are,” she muttered as she pulled out her prize-- a green and white sprig of mistletoe, only a little crushed from being stashed in her bag, attached to a bit of red yarn with a pushpin hanging off the end.

She looked around again, this time for something on which to stand. The stout wooden table next to the door looked like it would do the trick, so she dragged it a few feet over to the kitchen’s entrance, peering around the wall to make sure Simmons remained inside. Seeing that she had her back turned, Skye quickly climbed onto the table, praying it didn’t crack, and pushed the pin into the ceiling. An accomplished grin on her face, she made to climb down.

“Who’re you trying to lure under the mistletoe? Ward or Triplett?” came Simmons’ voice, catching her in the act. Skye turned to see an amused Simmons leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“Neither.” She climbed all the way down and pushed the table back against the wall. “Well, maybe one of them, later. Or both of them? But that’s really not the point.”

“So what is the point, then?”

“Hey Fitz! Can you come help me with something sciency?” At this request, Fitz nodded and crossed from the living room. As he did, Simmons let out an “oh!” and spun like a ninja along the wall, disappearing into the kitchen just as he reached the mistletoe.

“What is it, Skye?”

She rolled her eyes at Simmons’ Houdini act. _Girl’s got moves_. “Nothing. Never mind.” Fitz just shrugged and turned away, just as--

“Hey, mistletoe!” Trip pointed at the plant in question, hanging directly over the space between where Skye and Fitz still stood. The two looked up, then at each other, then at Trip.

“Oh, no, that’s not there for--” Skye protested, hands up placatingly in front of her, as Fitz asked, “Wait, where did that even come from?”

“I’m no mistletoe expert,” began Ward, “but I’m pretty sure the law states that one of you needs to kiss the other."

“But I didn’t put that there because of--”

“Ah, caught in her own trap, eh?” Trip laughed. “Lay one on her, Fitz.”

Fitz looked from Skye, to the guys, back to Skye, before surveying the room quickly. Skye just stood there for another moment before rolling her eyes. “Oh, just come here.” At this, Simmons’ head peeked around the corner, watching curiously. Skye put one hand on Fitz’s bicep and the other on his neck and pulled him closer to her. His eyes widened as she kissed him, right on the lips, for a full second, before pulling back and letting him go. He smiled, laughing, a slight flush to his cheeks.

“Nice one,” said Trip, raising his glass in cheers.

“Well done,” said Simmons, looking a bit puzzled.

“I’ve seen better,” said Ward, smirking at the pair.

“I’ve had better,” said Fitz, watching Skye out of the corner of his eye. Her mouth opened in disbelief, brows raised.

“Hey!” She punched him lightly on the arm, but couldn’t help but grin. “You just wait, all of you. No one escapes the wrath of the Christmas kissing plant.”

“We’re utterly terrified, Skye,” joked Simmons. Skye raised her eyebrows, giving the other woman a challenging look that wiped the smirk from her face. It was not the first time that Skye had insinuated as much with just an expression.

A moment passed as the group stood silently.

“Something smells awesome,” Trip broke the silence.

“Time to eat!” Simmons announced, grateful for the subject change, and everyone moved toward the dining area.

 

 

A festive red cloth adorned the table, which was set for five. Simmons had already placed the rolls, along with a few serving platters full of food, in the middle. Everyone grabbed a plate from the spot at which they intended to sit-- Ward and Skye on either end of the rectangular table, with Trip on one side and both Fitz and Simmons on the other. After filling their plates high with food, the group was finally seated and ready to eat.

“This looks delicious, Simmons,” said Ward as he placed his napkin in his lap. The others nodded and murmured in agreement.

“We should raise a toast. To Simmons. And to a lesser extent, Fitz,” Trip said, grinning at Fitz, who shrugged good-naturedly. “For putting this whole dinner together for us orphans.”

“To Simmons!” Everyone raised their glasses, taking a sip and then digging into the feast.

 

 

“To the baa baa shop!”

Everyone groaned. “Actually, it would be a wool-cut, not a haircut, wouldn’t it,” noted Simmons. The groans continued, even from Fitz, whose cracker had contained the joke.

“Don’t be _sheepish_ , Fitz. It wasn’t _that_ bad of a joke,” said Skye with a smirk.

“Yeah, man, we’re just getting your _goat_ ,” Trip added.

“I don’t know if you _herd,_ but-- something. About a sheep herd.” Ward looked around the table, eyebrows raised as if to say, “Get it?”

“Oh honey.” Skye pushed Ward’s glass of wine closer to him. “Leave the puns to the professionals.”

 

 

“You may all address me as King Triplett,” he said, pulling on the purple tissue-paper crown from his own cracker. “I’ll be a firm ruler, yet fair.”

“We’re all wearing crowns, though, so really, you’re not that special,” noted Fitz, as Simmons reached over and adjusted the yellow crown that sat crookedly atop his head.

“Just a lowly peasant, really,” she added. “Like us.”

“Bow down, woman!” Trip gestured at her with his fork, accidentally flinging a bit of mashed potato that landed right on her collarbone. “Shit, sorry! Sorry!” He immediately dropped his kingly persona, offering her his napkin. She had dissolved into laughter, as had the rest of the table, and she plucked a Brussels sprout from her plate to throw at him in retaliation. He caught it in his mouth and grinned again. “Like I said,” he began, after swallowing. “Bow down.”

 

 

With everyone too full to proceed straight to the pudding course, Fitz manned the sink as the others brought their dishes into the kitchen and tidied up the dining area. Simmons began to tuck away leftovers in Tupperware containers and foil-covered glassware, pleased to know they’d have plenty to eat for the next few days.

She peered over to where Fitz rinsed the plates. “Missed a spot.” In response, he simply ran his hand under the water for a moment before flicking droplets at her, grinning.

“Oh, don’t you dare, Leopold Fitz.”

“Leopold?” Trip and Ward spoke at the same time, watching from the kitchen entrance. Skye shook her head as she wrapped leftover rolls in foil, chuckling.

“You don’t want to start a war that you won’t win,” continued Simmons. “Remember last summer, in the lab?”

An indignant look crossed Fitz’s face. “I knew that was on purpose! Those chemicals turned my favorite grey cardigan acid green!”

“Well perhaps you should have cleaned up the ball bearings you spilled all over the floor better, and I wouldn’t have slipped and spilled all over that lovely cardigan of yours,” she retorted, though a smile played at her lips.

“Are you accusing me of a lapse in lab safety, Simmons?” One eyebrow raised and a playful glint in his eyes, he pulled the spray attachment from its place behind the sink and aimed it right at her.

“Oh no you wouldn’t, Fitz.”

“Wouldn’t I?” He held down the trigger for the briefest of moments, a short jet of water hitting Simmons on her left shoulder. She laughed, shocked, when she felt the cool water-- just enough to splash her shirt, not soak it.

“I cannot believe you did that.” She grabbed a pot lid from the stove to use as a makeshift shield and held it in front of her. Scanning the area for a weapon of her own, she plucked a wooden spoon from a ceramic container on the counter.

“Going to get me back by stirring me up, eh?” Simmons just giggled at him, brandishing her spoon with a flourish.

“Oh my god, you pair of dummies.” The two scientists looked up at Skye’s voice, setting down their respective weapons. “Seriously, if you guys are going to act like that, do it right out there.” She jerked her thumb at the area directly outside the kitchen, behind where Ward and Trip stood. Eyes flicking to the mistletoe that still hung tauntingly from the ceiling, Simmons blushed, turning around and resuming cleanup. Fitz cleared his throat and replaced the spray attachment to its rightful place, focusing his full attention on rinsing gravy from a particularly stubborn plate.

“Honestly.” Skye turned to leave the kitchen. Trip shrugged and began to help Simmons pack the fridge full of leftovers, but Ward followed Skye.

“What was that about?”

She stopped and turned around to face him, sighing. “Nothing.” She gestured to Fitz and Simmons studiously ignoring each other. “They’re just my best friends, and I love them, but sometimes I just want to mash their faces together, ya know?” Ward quirked an eyebrow at her. “I thought Christmas would be the perfect time for them to finally admit to themselves how they feel. I even tracked down that stuff--” She gestured at the mistletoe. “--figuring it would kickstart things a little. But apparently the smartest people I’ve ever met are also the dumbest. I just don’t understand--”

“Skye.”

“--how they don’t see it. They figured out that I didn’t have anywhere to go for Christmas, and I’m a great liar. Well, maybe--”

“Skye.”

“--not _great_ , but I’m not _that_ bad. Maybe not, like, Future Undercover Specialist Ops Badass Grant Ward good, but--”

“Skye. Stop talking now.”

“What?”

Gaze momentarily flicking upwards to the mistletoe they’d ended up beneath, he reached out to gently cup her cheek with one of his hands, and leaned down to press his lips to her own. Her hand moved to his waist almost instinctively, though the kiss caught her fully off guard. It was brief, and just as she was beginning to relax into it, he pulled away, a smile playing at his lips.

They stood there, silent, for a moment. Then: “Why am I the one that keeps having to kiss people?”

“Should I be offended?” he asked with amusement.

“No! Sorry. I liked that. I think it’s previously been established that I like kissing you, in fact.” Ward smirked at that. “Sorry.”

“Merry Christmas, Skye.”

“Merry Christmas, Ward.”

“And look. Maybe after the holidays are over… we can go get a drink or something?”

She cocked her head, a smile blooming on her face. “Is Mr. Serious-face Ops Trainee suddenly admitting that feelings aren’t so bad? Did your heart grow three sizes today?”

“A simple yes or no would suffice.”

“Yes, then,” she answered immediately. “Now let’s see about this pudding. I’m hungry again already.”

 

 

“Simmons, what the hell is this?”

She looked up at Skye. “It’s the pudding.”

Skye’s brow furrowed as she examined the dish Simmons had placed in the center of the table, flummoxed. “No,” she said, speaking slowly as if Simmons weren’t the smartest person in the room. “That’s a fruitcake with berries on top.”

“No,” Fitz chimed in, speaking equally slowly. “It’s plum pudding. And it smells incredible.” Simmons smiled at the compliment, nose scrunching slightly.

“Skye promised there’d be chocolate pudding,” said Ward.

“It’s delicious.” Simmons rolled her eyes. “Just try it, you two.” She cut into the moist dessert, placing the slices delicately onto small plates and passing them around the table before taking her seat.

Skye reached for a nearby open bottle of wine, topping off her own glass, then Ward’s. “Okay...but if it tastes like plums, then there’d better be cookies left.”

“Oh, there aren’t plums in it,” said Simmons. Skye looked relieved.

“Raisins, actually,” added Fitz, and Skye’s relief disappeared, face incredulous.

“Do you Brits even know what dessert means?”

“Eat your plum pudding and we’ll take you out for chocolate milkshakes tomorrow,” offered Simmons.

“Oh, alright.” Skye pierced her pudding with her fork, nibbling a small bite. “Extra whipped cream.” She swallowed. “And I get all your cherries.”

 

 

“Simmons, can you come here for a sec? I need to ask you something sciency,” called Fitz. Simmons got up from where she sat with the others on the couch, everyone too stuffed from dinner to move. The other three continued to argue about who would win in a fight between a Captain America without his shield and Thor without possession of Mjolnir, barely noticing her absence.

“What is it, Fitz?” She crossed the room to meet him where he stood, just outside the kitchen.

“So that one works on you too, then.”

“What do you mean?”

He simply looked upward. Her eyes followed his gaze-- mistletoe. When her eyes met his again, she couldn’t read his expression, and had no idea what hers was communicating to him, either. All she knew was that her pulse had suddenly sped up and she could hear it in her ears. _A flush of adrenaline caused by an unfamiliar situation_ , she thought. _That’s all it is._

Fitz raised his eyebrows, just barely, and she thought he looked hopeful, but couldn’t be sure. It was rare that she couldn’t read him easily, and if there were ever a time she wanted to be able to read him, now would be it-- just a few scant inches away from a Christmas-plant-mandated kiss that she wasn’t completely sure was a good idea.

But a mistletoe law’s a mistletoe law, she decided. The corners of her mouth raised slightly, and she took an almost-imperceptible step forward. He took an even smaller step toward her, still unsure. She took a deep breath, then: “Oh, just--” and closed the space between them, one hand at his waist, the other threading through the hair at the nape of his neck, mouth pressed to his.

Despite having been the one to call her over, Fitz stilled, shocked, for a moment, before reacting-- one arm wrapped around her as the other reached up, hand resting just beneath her jaw, thumb brushing the skin beneath her earlobe. She shivered, thinking faintly that she wasn’t normally ticklish there.

Her lips moved in tandem with his own, the kiss deepening as he tightened the arm he held around her back slightly, pulling her closer. She scritched her fingernails through his curls and it was his turn to shiver. After a moment, he pulled away just enough to look her in the eyes, then placed one more quick kiss on her lips and stepped back to a reasonable, friendly distance.

_A good idea_ , she thought, breathing a bit faster than normal. _Definitely a good idea._

Breaking each other’s gaze in unison, the two looked over to the living room, only to see that the others remained on the couch, still arguing. They hadn’t noticed at all. Fitz looked back at Simmons, a slow, conspiratorial smile on his face that she returned in kind.

“Hey look! FitzSimmons are under the mistletoe!”   

Their smiles faded.

“Finally!” Skye jumped up from her seat. “Let’s see some smooching.”

The scientists shared another glance, before Fitz shrugged. “What the hell?” With an easy grin this time, he pulled her in for another kiss. Simmons thought to herself that it was even better the second time around.

 

 

“So he’s an alien and also a time traveler.”

“Basically, yes.”

“Then why does he look like a human?” Trip looked over from where he sat in the armchair, perplexed. Fitz and Simmons sat beside each other on the couch, not much closer than they would have sat before their mistletoe kiss, but that wasn’t saying much. They shared a quilted throw blanket, however, underneath which he clasped her hand in his, thumb idly brushing over her soft skin.

“He’s a Time Lord,” Fitz answered, keeping his eyes glued to the TV screen. “And this is the _Christmas special_ , so maybe we can keep the Q and A session to commercial breaks, eh?”

“Somebody’s touchy about his British alien dudes,” said Skye from her place on the floor. She leaned up to make room for Ward, who crossed the room from the kitchen with a drink and took his place on the couch behind her. She settled back, leaning against his legs.

“Don’t mind Fitz. Doctor Who has been his favorite since he was small.”

“Yours too!”

“You know that it is,” she said, squeezing his hand. He dragged his eyes away from the screen, where the Doctor fiddled with the knobs and levers in the TARDIS, to grin at Simmons.

“What’s he got there, like a tiny lightsaber?”

Fitz’s grin faded, and he opened his mouth to respond. Simmons leaned forward to answer Trip before Fitz could say anything.

“It’s a sonic screwdriver, actually. He uses it to get out of all kinds of scrapes.”

“Ahh. A screwdriver, huh? So he’s basically like a badass, time traveling, superhero engineer, eh Fitz?”

Fitz opened and closed his mouth, head tilted thoughtfully. “Okay, Trip. You can stay.”

 

 

“I’d say Christmas was a rousing success. What about you guys?” Skye craned her head around to see that Ward was dozing on the couch behind her, Fitz and Simmons not far off from it beside him as the TV played a repeat of the Doctor Who special they’d finished earlier. Simmons smiled at her sleepily.

“I’m glad you all could come. I’m glad I stayed.”

“Are you?” Fitz asked, his tone a bit unsure, tilting his head where it rested on the back of the couch to face her fully. She mirrored him and nodded, smiling softly.

“I’m glad I ran into Fitz the other day at the tree lot,” said Trip from the chair. “You’re good people, all of you.”

Ward let out a soft snore, and the others all snickered. “Ward says he’s thankful for your hospitality, and that we’re all incredibly witty, brilliant and attractive also,” Skye translated.

“Happy Christmas,” said Fitz. The others murmured in agreement, and a comfortable silence settled on the contented group.

“Hey Fitz. Say ‘God bless us, everyone.’”

Fitz chuckled, then narrowed his eyes, indignant. “Hold it, why do I have to be Tiny Tim?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Want to chat on Tumblr? I'm unbreakablejemmasimmons over there!


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